Verse in My Purse


(I)
The Self-Condemned
          A Villonaud, with debts to György Faludy
 
The dance of defeat  ̶─ I hang from the rope of wasted
years stretching back to my childhood's radiant offer
as the pain of my throat's contraction measures the weight
of seedling abilities that have mouldered forgotten.
　
 
(II)
Caution
 
Our civilizations have sown new notions
of treating unwanted populations,
reasoned a seasoned son of Auschwitz.
 
And he entreated his own: You’ll lose all
you own and never forget it  ̶─ so boldly
hold up your head while you’ve got it.
　
 
(III)
Alarm Calls
 
Alarm clocks (tick-tock!) scorning the morning,
alarm calls trigger the terror device.
           Locks, clocks, a paradox,
           the dead commuter said,
           even if they had spared me, I’ve
           sold my life from nine to five...
But (tick-tock!) what did he get for the price?
　
 
(IV)
The power of Money
          After Francis Bacon
 
Many don’t know that money
must be, must be!
either a clever servant
or a cruel master.
That’s why many chase money,
(trust me, trust me!)
fervently, ever
faster and faster and faster.
　
 
(V)
The Power of Poetry
          After Heinrich Heine
 
When I cried out my pain and pride and joy
you yawned: Get lost you silly boy!
When I set out my soul in poetry
you raised your heart and sang with me.
　
 
(VI)
A Walk in Derbyshire
           For Michael Riddall
 
Timeless landscape, not quite empty –
Silent hilltops and whispering riverbanks
treasure the tread of lightfooted giants
who pass here in their eternity,
impossibly chasing their soaring desires
to capture for ever in perfect lines
that ring them with magic. What delight
when a rhymecatcher walks with me.
　
 
(VII)
Blue Danube
          For Maureen Weldon
 
You are a Viennese hexameter --
            I’m a Parisian flea.
Let’s waltz! We have plenty in common,
            although my own six feet are wee.


(VIII)
Plinth Poet, 2009
 
Among stern men of stone deprived of speech,
in the sky with birds and bygone soldiers, I’ve
just seen on a plinth a marvellous poet and teacher:
he was high on words and astonishingly alive.


Thomas Land

If you have any comments on these poems, Thomas Land would be pleased to hear them.